


Solar and Stillroom

by nonisland



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Backstory, Break the Damn Door Down: a Fridged Women Ficathon, Character Development, Comment Fic, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonisland/pseuds/nonisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is Elaine? Elaine is a lady, a healer, a spinner of dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solar and Stillroom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Break the Damn Door Down (a Fridged Women Ficathon)](http://chavahrishonah.livejournal.com/848.html), for the prompt [arthuriana, elaine of astolat, _give me hope in silence / it's easier, it's kinder_](http://chavahrishonah.livejournal.com/848.html?thread=4688#t4688).
> 
> * * *
> 
> Should you find something, whilst reading one of my stories, that offends you/is incorrect/could offend others/is in any way problematic, please please _please_ do not hesitate to tell me. I will never spew hate at you, I will never attack you, and I will _always_ thank you for taking the time to let me know.

Elaine never knew her mother. She learns to embroider and weave from Nan, and to care for the people of Astolat from her father, and to tend the sick from old Alis who nursed her. She gathers flowers from the meadows and the riverbanks and piles them in heaps, scatters them dried and sweet-smelling through the rushes, then runs back to the river to watch the progress of boats and pilgrims on the far bank.

Weaving is her favorite, she thinks—the thud and the swish of shuttle and trailing threads, bright patterns shaping themselves from nothing. She makes stories on a grand scale: fantastical beasts and beautiful women and gallant knights, whole worlds that would never fit on the edges of an altar-cloth even if they belonged there.

And then other times she finds herself in the stillroom, surrounded by soft-colored bundles of herbs drying and the soft bubble of tinctures and tonics heating, as her hands are stained with medicines and softened with oils, and she thinks, _no, this is_. She jars her salves and her potions, her powders and ointments, and wraps them in lengths of bandage to keep them from knocking together when she takes them where they’re needed.

She wants—she doesn’t know what she wants. Adventure; meaning. She listens to the petitions in her father’s hall and dreams of other places, of being someday more than a lady gowned in fine clothes and seated still and quiet a pace behind her lord husband.

Sir Lancelot, when she meets him, is shatteringly _more_ than anyone she’s ever known.

Elaine thinks of the wide, wide stretch of open roads, of snow-white horses and faery towers and how King Arthur’s knights are known throughout the land as good. She thinks of what she could do, of all the places she could go; she thinks that at his side she could make something of her life.

He loves the queen, but—but he consents to wear Elaine’s favor; he accepts Elaine’s nursing when he is injured, and smiles at her. And she lets herself think, _perhaps soon_ , and _please_.


End file.
